I Think We’re Beyond That

I was rushing out the rental beach house when Cindy, my sister-in-law, walked in from her spin class. Her face was aglow and had a look of triumph as she gave me the once over.  Busted! Had I slithered out the door twenty seconds sooner, I wouldn’t be standing here, stumbling over my words.

“Hey Cindy. I, uh. . . this damp beach towel that I’ve already used at the pool  . . .”

“Yes?”

“And is now wrapped around my waist to go to the beach, uh . . . might be yours.”

She nonchalantly lifts her sunglasses.  “Yes, Tammy. It’s mine. We’ve known each other 25 years. I think we're beyond that!”  How great are those words? Now, I do believe the subtext here is, “mi casa es su casa.” That’s what I’m going for anyway. I can use all her stuff for the whole week! Her Mac Pro makes my Dell laptop look like Grandpa from the Munsters. Her sunglasses are shadier than mine. Her Honda Pilot is bigger than my rental. Hell! Even her kids are more polite than mine.

This certainly isn't the first time I've been busted. My husband and I have a yearly summer party, maybe 25-30 guests. Now, if you leave something of yours and you want it back, just call. It's even possible I may go out of my way to drop it off the next day or month.

Well, a couple summers ago, a fabulous pair of designer sunglasses appeared at one of our parties and never left. I called at least two friends to see if they were missing a pair of shades. Nope! They weren’t. So, September rolls around. And yes, I’m going to start wearing them. I’m not about to pay $300 for a pair of Burberry sunglasses, (I thought they only made rain coats—who knew!) but the least I can do is get some use out of them for someone else.

Then one sunny, autumn day, my friend Michelle and I meet for lunch. As I recall, she was a guest at our party and perhaps was one that didn’t get called. She takes one look and compliments me, “You look fabulous. I lost a pair of Burberrys just like that.” Now, she and I have been friends since 2002. She is being 100% sincere and not angling to find out if I stole her glasses. (When my other friends meet her, they are, like, "Wow, Tammy! She's friends with you??") I quickly evaluate how important our relationship is. Our children grew up together, we’d throw each other under the bus to sleep with Jake Gyllenhaal, and she can afford Burberrys (the glasses and the slickers).

A decision has been made. “Michelle, thank you." I touch her hand for added sincerity.  "I guess we both just have fabulous taste.”

I am kidding! I did not say that, only the bubble above my head reflects that.

I whip those glasses off my face and stick the end of the temple in my mouth.

“Michelle! These are yours. I called around after the party, but couldn’t reach you! Please! You must take them back. I mean it!”

I chew on the end of that temple like it was one of the tentacles from our calamari salad.

“That’s okay,” she sighs, eyeing the temple in my mouth. “Your birthday’s in six months. Consider them an early present.”

Just like my sister-in-law at the beach. I guess that was her way of saying, "I think we're beyond that!"

“Well, okay.  Let me get lunch.” Now, I was really happy we had shared that calamari salad. But damn! Why did I have to chew so hard on that temple?!

Chicken Shit

I just discovered something about myself. Isn't that what life is all about--being pleasantly surprised, or horrified, to discover a buried piece of your psyche?

I like the smell of chicken shit. I mean, I'm sitting one foot away from a chicken coop and I'm taking yoga-style, lung-expanding deep breaths to enjoy the aroma--the shit. I wish there were an exotic name for it, but there isn't. Bats have the corner on guano. Cattle have cow pies. Hen dung just doesn't roll of the tongue.

Full disclosure here. I'll mention my surroundings other than the chicken coop. I'm a stone's throw away from a medieval Italian village staying at a friend's farmhouse/villa. It's possible the chicken shit aroma might be intermingled with Chianti grapes that are on the vine a few yards away. The chickens peck away at a few olives that have fallen into their enclosure from the branches that hang overhead.

Nevertheless, it seems the smell of chicken shit is the same no matter where one is. This morning, I realize the aroma is one of those smells that remind me of Kansas and my childhood. As I breathe in the scent, time rolls backwards to when I was 10 years old on an airless, hot summer day. I’m outside, in the yard and the buzzing flies are so lethargic, I can swat at them on the back of my leg and smash their guts into my skin. I'm wondering where the nasty black and white spotted rooster is. He lives to terrorize me. He waits until I've come from the hen house with my yellow, rubber-coated metal basket full of gathered eggs. Only then does he charge. The basket bangs against my leg as I scream and run. Eggs break, yellow yolks intermingle with the fly guts stuck to my skin.

The Italian rooster crows, shaking me back to the present.

Here's the long and short of this. I’m here, in Tuscany, gazing at rows of grape vines, olive and cypress trees. Nothing familiar, except the clucking of  chickens and smell of their shit. My childhood follows me, no matter.

Distracted

I’m up early on this quiet Sunday morning, sitting on the screened-in porch, mesmerized by the dancing of the rain, the fluttering of the leaves, and the chatttering of the birds. What a perfect day to reread Shantaram, binge watch “Sneaky Pete” or work on a dusty blog.

I peruse some old titles from my half-baked writings:  Smok’in in the Girls Room, Gwyneth Paltrow, Shanghai Pajamas, The Importance of Being a Catchy Title, Oddness of Life, The Weight of Time, Power of Prayer, Eclectic vs. Archaic, Where Are You Candy Man, Janus, and Potato/Potato-Tomato/Tomato to just list a few of the 101 blogs I have begun over the years since I started this endeavor.  I think it’s safe to say I have a focus issue or a stick to the project at hand issue. Maybe those are very similar issues!

I was at my parent’s farm in Kansas recently. Tucked away in the old milk barn, almost hidden by boxes of Mason jars were a couple of old dining room chairs I had rescued from some dump. They were nicely sanded,  just waiting for the next step towards completion. Had I wanted to simply sand and stain them 20 years ago when I was visiting for Christmas? Was I hoping to decoupage them a la "Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds" motif? Who knows? What I do know, is there they sit, assisting my mother’s Mason jars as a shelf until next canning season.

When I’m home on the farm, I also peruse not-often used rooms and drawers. I only open two or three drawers a visit because I quickly find some "treasure" that distracts me from the original intent of snooping, discarding, or simply wiling away the time. Last time I visited, I was on a mission. I wanted to find Simplicity, Butterick and McCalls sewing patterns—not of mine growing up, but of my mother’s. I love the summer seersucker and cotton eyelet dresses from the 1950’s and I recall seeing her patterns as a child. Instead, I found swatches of fabric from outfits my sister and I sewed for our 4-H projects in the 1970's. I fondly ran my hand over a piece of bright, cotton red fabric with those omnipresent yellow smiley faces. Ouch! A pin stuck me. I pulled out the fabric and spread it open. Attached with pins, was a paper pattern. I had made a one-piece jumpsuit from the fabric and had enough left over to make a pair of culottes. As I discovered, the shorts were never finished, or even started, for that matter. As I gazed at the material, maybe it was for the best. Maybe its even for the best that some of my blogs stay hidden in a virtual drawer for all time, as well. I think one of those is “Gwyneth Paltrow.”

The "Gwyneth Paltrow" blog, not oddly enough, was about Gwyneth Paltrow. Sometimes, my titles aren't so catchy! I started it about eleven years ago. I jumped on the "Hate Gwyneth Paltrow Bandwagon" before most, but I never followed through with it. I knew once she started GOOP  (her lifestyle website), her real haters came out to bash her and I didn't want to be in that group. Is it fair to hate her just because she is a quintessential beauty and making millions of dollars?? For those unfamiliar with Gwyneth's lifestyle website, it's rather new agey, mixed with things we don't want to hear, like the truth. Find a physical activity you love and do it fives times a week. Avoid white flour and sugar. But if we avoid sugar, what about yet another unfinished blog, "Where Are You Candy Man?"

"Where Are You Candy Man?" was about the lyrics to the 1970's hit sung by Sammy Davis, Jr. Of course, as a child, I loved that song.  Rainbows, chocolates, sprinkles! No mention of dentists or ruining one's appetite! Sing along with me!

Who can take a sunrise(who can take a sunrise)
Sprinkle it with dew(sprinkle it with dew)
Cover it with choc'late and a miracle or two
The Candy Man(the Candy Man)
Oh, the Candy Man can
The Candy Man can
"Cause he mixes it with love
And makes the world taste good

Who can take rainbow(who can take a rainbow)
Wrap it in a sigh(wrap it in a sigh)
Soak it in the sun and make a groovy lemon pie
The Candy Man(the Candy Man)
The Candy Man can
The Candy Man can
'Cause he mixes it with love
And makes the world taste good

Who can take tomorrow(who can take tomorrow)
Dip in a dream(dip it in a dream)
Separate the sorrow and collect up all the cream.......

Seems like the Candy Man can do everything! 
Am I right?
Everything!

OK--I have a crazy idea.


Candy Man for President!!!!
Gwyneth Paltrow as FLOTUS!!!